


This is an Apology

by thebaloonatic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:50:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5760127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebaloonatic/pseuds/thebaloonatic





	This is an Apology

You find yourself staring, rather often, at his eyelashes. They are endlessly fascinating - the way the light catches them, turns them blonde to shimmer gold. He is beautiful. You do not think he ever catches you looking. 

 

**.**

 

You find yourself looking up from you place on the sofa, stretched out like a cat, to find his armchair empty. This does not make sense. Hadn’t you just been talking with him? He had been uttering his ‘brilliants’ and ‘fantastics’ only moments before. Your nose wrinkles and you turn over, pressing your face into the back of the sofa, your back to an empty sitting room. 

 

**.**

 

He makes your tea exactly as you like it. Milk. Far too many sugars. 

 

“You’ll rot your teeth out at this rate,” he says when he hands it to you. He says the same thing whenever he makes you tea. It isn’t unkind, but you snatch the mug from him every time and drink it furiously in order to hide the vulnerable look that threatens to show itself. You must keep up appearances. 

 

**.**

 

More often, you are the one making the tea. You know how he likes it. One-and-a-half tablespoons milk, brewed seven minutes and twenty seconds. Hot. Your aren’t sure if you’ve perfected it or not. You fiddle with it sometimes, trying to get it just right. He never complains, so you have to analyze his facial expressions in order to improve upon it. 

 

He never complains.

 

**.**

 

When he comes back to Baker Street, Mary gone for good this time, there are no more girlfriends. You are relieved. You could not bear it, after Mary, if there were more girlfriends. 

 

Yet you are confused at the same time. There are no more girlfriends, but there still seems to be something between the two of you. He is closer than ever, but you can not reach him. 

 

Things go on as normal

 

**.**

 

There are body parts in the tub. An experiment on blood spatter that had been messy - it made sense to put them in the tub. You try to explain this to him, that you had minimized the mess, you’d been thinking of  _ him. _ You were being considerate. He puts his coat back on, minutes after taking it off upon entering 221b. 

 

“I need some air.”

 

**.**

 

You leave the body parts in the tub, irritated at his reaction. An overreaction, in your opinion. To think you are the one so often accused of being over-dramatic. You ignore the cold seeping in your gut and stare blankly down the lense of your microscope. The flat feels unusually quiet after the almost-shouting that took place moments before. Each breath you take feels awkward and uncomfortable. 

 

**.**

 

He returns thirty-seven minutes later, closing the front door gently and taking the stairs slowly. He’s calmed down then, maybe even feels a bit guilty for the almost-shouting. You watch him enter the sitting room, drape his coat over the chair and putter around for a few minutes before settling on the sofa with a groan, remote in hand. Blue light flickers throughout the darkened flat, and the sound of something moronic, some crime drama, fills the living space. After some deliberation, you scoot your stool back, standing and making your way to the kettle. He is probably craving something a bit stronger than tea after the argument, knowing him, but you feel he will more likely recognize the effort that goes into a cup of tea than a finger of whiskey. This is an apology. 

 

One-and-a-half tablespoons of milk.

 

Brew, seven minutes and twenty seconds. 

 

“Ta,” is all he says when you hand it to him, joining him in front of the telly, sitting closer than you normally do. This is an apology. 

 

You yell at the television as usual. It’s all wrong, and you can not admit you are entertained. You must keep up appearances. He laughs good naturedly. Like you had not argued less than an hour before. 

 

He drains his tea in just under fifteen minutes and stands, taking your cup as well. You fear he is going to bed, but he returns from the kitchen with two drinks in hand. Stronger than tea. He sits closer than before and your knees brush together. 

 

You swallow as it happens and watch as he downs half his drink in one go, throat bobbing and grimacing slightly, resting the glass on his thigh. His eyes are trained on the television. You are not watching anymore. 

The whiskey burns pleasantly in your belly, and you sip slowly as your knees brush together again. You cannot breathe. 

 

He shifts again, so that your thighs are pressed together. You grip your glass so your knuckles turn white, wanting him closer but terrified to initiate it. He is warm. 

 

He drains his glass and stands, squeezing your thigh as he heaves himself to standing. It surprises you and you jerk slightly, but you don’t think he notices. Without a word, he takes his glass to the kitchen, then makes his way slowly up the stairs to his bedroom.

 

You are rooted to the sofa, bereft. Your skin burns where his hand had been, and you wish he were still there. You want to touch as well. 

 

The traffic outside is deafening. 


End file.
